


they carved a path through his skin, mercury trails to nowhere

by lawboy



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Study, During Canon, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, One Shot, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, honestly idk if it ends too early or not but that's where my ideas ran dry, i guess?, it's still a fair length for a short story so, pretty loose and doesn't really have a plot?, this was gonna be Actor angst but it became Benjamin angst and that's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27004969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawboy/pseuds/lawboy
Summary: Mark's demons killed him before they killed anyone else. Broke him down piece by piece through whispered thoughts until he started doing the dismantling for them.And Benjamin, faithful and silent, only watched.
Relationships: Benjamin | The Butler & Mark Fischbach
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	they carved a path through his skin, mercury trails to nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Markiplier fic, I rewatched WKM and realised I adore The Actor even tho he's a total jerk (but so tragic!)  
> I have an idea for a multi-chap story I might write, which is an AU of WKM that I just think is cool. But I'll see how I go before making promises

Mark woke up on the ground, spit congealing against his cheek and hard tile an all-too-familiar discomfort. He was alive again. With one stiff arm he raised himself, assessing the mess he’d made. Freshly torn shirt? Check. Rich, coagulated blood spilt with liberty from his wrists, neck, chest (wherever he’d sloppily slashed), dried into his clothing so they crackled, painting his outline on the floor? Another check. The air smelt heavy of iron, and the perpetual miasma of booze that hung about him these days. If he had anything in his stomach, he’d throw up. Instead, he just lifted himself on aching limbs and readied for the cleaning.

‘You make your bed, you lie in it’, that’s what his mother’d always said. Even in such a ghastly situation, he had to smile at how the lesson stuck. _You make your bed_ , the cold hard ground like he was some simple drunkard. And he lay, he lied. He tore off his wrecked shirt and scrubbed it against the pool of his own contents. A first round of raw grit to loosen the mess, then bleach, applied with vigour. He kept a gallon in his en-suite now. It was sickening how he’d fallen into pattern.

This was how many times?

He wasn’t quite insane enough to keep count— _though some part of him, tiny and niggling, almost wanted to; wanted to take pride in the hurt, the savagery —_ but as he got dressed, he counted another handful of scars. They were pink, swollen and angry. By day’s end, he knew they’d fade to white. Join the litany in his self-affected decor.

–

Benjamin clutched the wine bottle in white knuckles, advancing towards the lounge in slow-motion. It was a Chamisso Vintage Port, 1851— a good year. It’d been ageing finely in the cellar for decades; in a different world, it might’ve stayed reserved for some centennial, a night to remember. In this house, though, in this moment, its drinker just wanted to forget.

“The Chamisso-”

“Yeah, yeah, open it.”

Benjamin pursed his lips. His master had lost his elegance since the divorce. Sprawled out now on the couch, robe dishevelled and bare legs splayed against the armrest, he hardly looked the picture of the national heartthrob he’d once been. His eyes were glazed, and his glass hung limply from his grip— Benjamin could put down the bottle and walk away, and he knew quite surely that the master would never have it open.

He popped the cork, sea of guilt crushed in his chest by his obligation to obey.

“Good year.” He said numbly as he poured.

To Mark, it was all the same.

–

He might’ve died of alcohol poisoning a dozen times without notice. What was another tally mark, at this point? He’d still wake up the next day. God, he’d still wake up.

Mark knew it was stupid, that he was ruining himself. _But he wanted to. He had nothing now, and this— the drinking, the death, the cycle —it was_ _**something!**_ _It was sparks of colour in the black, it was a reminder that he was still fucking breathing and if he had nothing else to live for, why not have this, instead, to die for?_

_Why not die? Again? Didn’t he want to feel the spark?_

He was slipping off into the comfortable haze of unconsciousness, thoughts sifting past his fingers like fine sand. Whatever he was going to do could wait. Oh, he’d love to sleep.

–

It wasn’t even noon this time when the master clocked out. Slipping silently into the room, Benjamin pried the bottle from Mark’s grip and set it on the table. One arm on his back and the other supporting his legs, he hoisted him against his chest and made the crawl to his master’s bedroom.

Once upon a time, Benjamin had been run off his feet all day with guests. He’d opened a door every second, penned letters until his hands ached, and carried tray after tray of party favours to the crowd that never left the house. From dawn til dusk, he worked, and each night he went to bed praying that one day the master would slow down on his extravagance.

He hadn’t wanted it like this.

Putting Mark to bed would be his last task of the day, so he always aimed to make it count. Placing him gently on the chaise lounge in the corner, Benjamin straightened the sheets, fluffed the pillows, and opened the windows to air the room. Maybe he’d wake up happy. Maybe he’d feel the summer breeze and decide to live one day sober.

It was a thought he felt stupid entertaining. There was no uphill. For all the luxury he lived amongst, Mark saw nothing but the holes those departed had left. He would rot in misery until it killed him, and Benjamin would hand him the noose.

Rough hand behind Mark’s neck, Benjamin raised him to slip his robe past his shoulders. The stiff shirt and cravat he seemed to live in now, for what little dignity they gave, would only provide him discomfort in sleep. With chaste, professional motions, he removed his neckcloth and unbuttoned his shirt. Discretion foremost in his mind, he hardly glanced at the master’s body— until he turned back from folding his clothes.

Scar tissue ran in rivulets across Mark’s torso, stark white in the midday sun. His neck bore its own grin, in several layers, overlapping with a practised precision but for the ends. Tracing the wounds with a calloused fingertip, Benjamin felt breath and bile catch at once in his throat. Mark’s arms, when he searched them, were no less damaged: scars travelled the lengths of his wrists’ arteries, intersected by horizontal cuts like a roadmap. Each faded line was over-traced and reinforced, made clear as if he _wanted-_

He jolted back, head spinning. Cupped his hands to themselves protectively and averted his eyes.

It wasn’t real. It _couldn’t_ be real. No, that’s right, it most certainly couldn’t. Injuries of that calibre would’ve killed him. He would’ve _noticed._ He cared for the master every day, he would’ve seen _something_ if it was true. It must’ve been a trick of the light, perhaps, or old scrapes from childhood he’d never paid mind to before. If it was real, he would’ve known. He would’ve known.

Slipping out into the hall, he met the mirror and himself. And he knew what he saw. And he pushed it down.

–

It’d been a shock when Mark suddenly announced that he was going to throw a party. Bouncing down the stairs with a grin on his lips, he’d swung his way into the kitchen and rattled off a dozen courses to have ready by the morrow. It was like seeing a ghost. Cautious, but eager, Benjamin had walked him through what few vintages they had left, discussing palates and bodies like Mark had any idea about oenology.

It was going to be a good night. That’s what he’d promised himself, over and over, even as the party grew more debaucherous and the cellar more sparse. He kept his grimaces for behind closed doors; at least Mark wasn’t drunk alone. At least, among friends, the opportunity was open for someone to intervene in his spiral.

Benjamin hardly slept that night, what with cleanup, and when Mark’s death was announced in the morning he was almost too exhausted to process. A _murder._ A killer. Someone had eaten him alive.

He stood to the side, watched the narrative build and almost bought it. Almost. Alone with his thoughts, though, he mulled the puzzle pieces he held and saw a different story.

Mark, alone in the night. Mark, scarred and suicidal. Mark, suddenly gathering his former friends to celebrate— without stating once the occasion.

Mark, drunk and depressed, throwing himself off the second floor and breaking his neck.

When he could catch the DA alone, he led them to the cellar. The place of evils.

“You first.”

The DA shot him a confused glance, but descended without a word. Standing at the top of the staircase, Benjamin steadied his breath before he followed. The words he’d prepared played on loop through his head like a skipping record; perfect, concise, not lingering on the details. No evocativeness to it, no imagery— he stopped his train of thought there, lest the memories come back. Ran a hand along the cool stone wall to ground himself.

Turning into the cellar, he was met with the back of the DA. They were staring at the ground, shoulders loose and hands tucked in their suit pockets. He took a step forward, peering past their shoulder.

A bottle was shattered on the ground. Dregs of wine lay sticky in its smooth insides, glimmering dully like raw gristle. A bottle was shattered on the ground. The edge of its shards caught the light, stark white, winding trails in the dark. The swinging lamplight hit it like the midday sun.

A bottle was shattered.

And grief overtook him like the rising tide, tearing a wail from his throat and he collapsed, with broom and shovel, sweeping inelegantly at the mess.

“I’m so sorry you had to see this!” And he felt it, from his core, from the depths of him. Oh, agony. The bottle was shattered. “Master would be so displeased!”

The DA was shuffling back. His thoughts weren’t with them. Hot tears burnt down his cheeks— rivulets —and the glass blurred into a mass, black on white, ivory roadmaps of a broken thing. The bottle was empty; it was no loss, to anyone else, that residue. No loss but to the man who cared for it.

He traced a thumb down the glinting edge, finding warmth in the cold. It sliced him open, and blood spilt like liquor. Caught in the glass.

How long would it take to heal?

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment with feedback or even just to leave a few good words! It makes me very happy and motivated!


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